I didn’t know what a myrtle leaf looked like, so I Googled it. There was then some consensus that there could be no consensus on a typical myrtle leaf.
So I started dreaming up my own version.
“Why a myrtle leaf?” you ask. Except you are not there to ask it. I could have a conversation with myself until I decide you were there watching me winding my watch slowly, methodically, in absent-minded, staring silence.
“Watches don’t need winding these days,” you say to yourself, as if doubting my existence, unless I existed in your past.
You find a book of leaves on the bookcase, Google having vanished into the future history of never.
So much more satisfying to look things up in real books. So much more creative to pass your time drawing a myrtle leaf on a sheet from a sketching-pad. You took my box of crayons. You could imagine all sorts of arrow-like tendrils radiating from the central pad of the hybrid leaf. Then you started to draw in great swirls. When you were little you conjured up all sorts of shapes from the unfinished drawings that became more like scribble than attempts at forming real things.
I drew two pointers from the centre of your leaf – and the numbers 1 to 12 around its periphery. You smiled. Happy that it sold for millions at a fine art auction. ‘The Myrtle Leaf Watch’ by me, not you. Future search engines permitting.
[Written as a speed-writing exercise with a random title at last night’s Clacton Third Thursday Writer’s Group.]